This weekend, i'm simply feeling exhausted. It isn't even ironic that the recent Richard Tuttle retrospective was one of the most acclaimed shows at the Whitney Museum, when, thirty years ago, the Whitney fired Marcia Tucker for putting on a Richard Tuttle show. Just like Charles Busch is able to make movies in Hollywood, while Jack Smith died with his estate now being battered back and forth. It's the type of thing: when the Whitney put on the recent Tuttle retrospective, did anyone even think to apologize to Marcia?

Of course not. In Alex Witchel's piece on Twyla Tharp in the New York Times Magazine, there's a comment by Jesse Huot (Twyla's son): "People whom Mom has been friends with, who have succeeded in the arts, have this, I'll say it, selfish relationship with their work. As my relationship with her has been challenged by her commitment to her work, I can only imagine how it affected someone involved with her in an intimate relationship." That's rather like the statement that Yvonne Rainer used in "Film About a Woman Who..." where she wonders if her "shit" is more important than she is. Of course it is: how many people actually know the person? But how many people will be affected by the work?